


Storybrooke Has Fallen

by Ice_Cube44



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, David Whump, Did I mention the whump?, Gen, Killian Jones - Secret Service Agent, Killian Whump, Olympus Has Fallen - Freeform, President Emma Swan, Probably other characters too, Reimagining of the movie, There's whump., Violence, Weapons, Whump, alternative universe, terrorist attack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Cube44/pseuds/Ice_Cube44
Summary: Secret Service agent Killian Jones has always taken his job seriously - perhaps a little too seriously if his supervisor were to have her say. But when terrorists attack the White House with Emma and her son inside, Jones will stop at nothing to find them and get them to safety. Birthday gift for the elusive NothingImpossible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable/gifts).



> Based entirely too closely on the movie Olympus Has Fallen.

The punches continued to rain down as Killian Jones bobbed and weaved around his opponent.  Sweat glistened under the lights and the smell of blood filled his nose from a lucky shot.  He waited patiently for an opening, baiting the combatant into a momentary lapse in judgment that would let him score a few body shots.  Finally, an elbow dropped carelessly away from its guard and Killian pounced.  A flurry of body shots dropped the other hand to protect vulnerable organs and he moved on instinct to jab towards his opponent’s head.

Emma Swan growled in frustration and swung wildly, clipping Killian’s jaw with her boxing gloves but leaving the other side of her helmet open to his attack.  He grinned around his mouth guard as he tapped her ear tauntingly, then laughed outright when she swatted his hand angrily away.

“For the love of God, Swan, keep your guard up!” he forced out around the plastic and gel in his mouth.

Emma tucked her elbows in and let him swing at her now-protected midsection, grunting with the exertion, but with a gleam in her eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” he smirked.  “You’re not gonna rope-a-dope me.  That’s a move for geriatrics.”

Swan glared, but changed up her plan, going on the attack and backing Killian up with a flurry of punches.

He grinned, ducking and jabbing to keep her off-balance, purposely leaving his left side open to gauge whether or not she’d catch it.

She did.

Killian gasped a little at the force of the blow, leaving a little more of his ribs vulnerable than he’d planned.  Emma’s answering grin let him know that she’d heard the sharp intake of air, but neither let up.

The sound of a throat clearing stopped the sparring session immediately.  Killian and Emma both looked up from the tiny boxing ring.  “Madame President, it’s almost time,” the new agent - unfortunately dubbed ‘Happy’ by Emma’s son - announced.

“Thank you, Michael,” Swan mumbled, spitting out her own mouth guard and nodding.  “We’ll be up in a moment.”

Happy left swiftly, leaving Emma and Killian alone in Camp David’s basement.  “You know, Jones, you’re not supposed to hit the President of the United States.”  She smiled slyly.

“Yeah,” he allowed.  “I know.”

He wasn’t agreeing with her.

Emma disappeared into the first family’s private quarters to get ready for the evening’s Christmas party, so Killian stalked through the house checking on the readiness of the agents under his command. The weather reports were coming in from the different agencies and networks, but Killian glanced out a window and frowned - it was really coming down out there and something niggled at the back of his mind.  He had half an idea to call off the excursion, keep the entire family safely ensconced in the camp’s borders where they were warm and out of danger.

But the next election was coming up soon and he knew that President Swan would scoff at his overprotectiveness if there were any chance that it was safe to drive to the dinner party.  Instead, he listened to the comm in his ear and nodded grimly - the weather was predicted to remain steady for the next several hours.

At the end of his loop through the residence, Killian hit the shower then changed quickly into a suit for the evening.  Finished wrestling with his tie, he marched out of his quarters and found himself in the family room, the warmth of the fire peaceful.

Until the sound of machine gun fire on the television assaulted his ears.

Killian cut his gaze over to where Emma’s ten-year old son Henry was glued to the television, the Playstation controller in his hand bopping about wildly as he ducked around the bullets flying on the screen.

“Now the real bloodbath begins when your father finds you playing this game,” he snarked before shutting off the television.

Henry glared at him, but threw the controller on the couch and flopped back on the cushions dramatically.  “You suck.”

Killian snorted.  “Just protecting your life, young sir,” he commented - earning a very Swan-like eyeroll in response.

Henry climbed over Killian’s lap, reaching for his latest book and curling up in a corner of the couch to fall into the latest story.  “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Killian replied before getting up with a check of his watch.  “Your parents should be out in a few minutes.  Be ready to go, yeah?”

Henry nodded, already lost to the outside world.

Killian moved past the Christmas decorations and the mountains of presents for the First Family’s own celebration the next morning - when their extended family and friends would arrive for Christmas breakfast.  His brain was already cataloguing the logistics he’d need to accommodate Neal’s batch of relatives.

He knocked on Neal and Emma’s bedroom door, greeted by Swan herself - or at least the top of her head as she read over her speech.

“Five minutes, ma’am,” Killian intoned formally, knowing it would get a rise out of Emma.

She looked up, startled for a moment, and then glared at him.  “Why thank you, kind sir,” she intoned sarcastically, moving away from the door.

“What do you think, Killian,” Neal spoke up from the bed where he was fiddling with his cuffs.  “Emma’s useless at picking.  The gold or the platinum.”

Killian refrained from rolling his eyes at Neal’s need for opulence.  “The gold.  Classic look for the First Husband.”

Neal considered him for a moment.  “That’s what Emma said, but nah, I think I’m going to go with the platinum for tonight.  But thanks,” he threw out, already moving towards the ensuite bathroom.

Killian shared a conspiratorial smile with Emma before backing away from the door and letting her close it in his face.  “We’ll be out in a minute, Jones,” she assured.

“Very well, ma’am.”

As promised, the couple emerged from the room a few minutes later, dressed to the nines and ready to go.  They met Henry in the living room, his book tucked discreetly into his tuxedo for when the party inevitably bored him to tears.

“Do I really have to go with you guys tonight?  I’ve been to _hundreds_ of these parties!” Henry whined, moving towards the door as if he knew his request would be denied before he finished asking.

“Re-election is hard work, kid,” Emma snarked, reaching out to run a hand over Henry’s hat.  “Are you really going to bring that book?”

“I think it’s fine,” Neal cut in.  “It’s age-appropriate.  I wish I could bring a book, too!”

Henry grinned at his father.

Emma rolled her eyes.  “Fine, but keep it out of sight for at least the first hour, okay?”

The boy smiled brightly.  “Only if I can ride with Killian?” he wheedled.

“It’s up to Jones.  He’s in charge,” Emma agreed with a smile.

Henry turned puppy dog eyes on Killian.  “Please, Killian?”

He’d already planned on letting his young friend ride in their car - giving Emma and her husband some alone time on Christmas Eve.  Killian nodded though, rearranging the secret service detachment as if it had only just occurred to him to do so.

The ride was tense, the wind and snow putting Killian on edge as he focused wholly on their surroundings.  It took him a moment to notice Henry leaning forward from the backseat, trying to see what Killian was looking at.

“Henry, your seatbelt,” he reminded, his heart rate skyrocketing until the boy was safely secured again.  They chatted for awhile about the responsibilities of his job - Henry had it in his head that he was going to grow up to be just like Killian and took every opportunity to question the agents assigned to him.

They were quizzing him on the number of escape routes in the White House when it happened.  The car in front of them - the one holding Emma and Neal - began to skid and then spun uncontrollably.  Killian was already fumbling with his seatbelt when the car crashed through the guardrail and the front wheels skidded over the edge of the embankment.

“Henry, stay here!” he screamed, one pointed look at the boy and a finger jabbed at Walter - Henry’s assigned agent - before he was out into the storm.

The car was tipping precariously over the edge, several agents already scrabbling to hold onto the car’s trunk and keep it on the road.  Killian barely spared them a glance before he was jerking open the door he’d only recently closed behind Emma, grabbing for her shoulder and trying to yank her from the car.

“Neal!” she cried, fumbling with something on the seat.  “Killian, his seatbelt’s stuck!  I can’t get it-”

Neal was barely conscious, his head dripping blood and his eyes glazed over.

“I need to get you out of here, Swan,” he yelled in her ear, trying to grab hold of her to pull her to safety.

Emma threw his arm away.  “I can’t… you have to save Neal!” she yelled, ignoring every attempt to get her away from danger.

“The door’s stuck!” one of his agents yelled from the other side, trying in vain to get to the now unconscious First Husband.

“Emma, come on!” he yelled in her ear, finally getting an arm around her and yanking her back towards him.  “I’ll get Neal in-”

They fell backwards into the snow, Emma still scrambling in his hold to get back to her husband.  Killian was still struggling to hold her, already mapping out a strategy to keep her safe and get Neal when the shouts of his team reached him.

There was no more time to react, the car careening over the side with a horrendous screech of metal and crashing through the trees.

Everything went silent, Emma’s screams and his own fading into numbness where everything slowed down comically.  The brake lights of the car shimmered through the night until those, too, were lost to the darkness.

Neal had still been inside.

Time sped up at Henry’s panicked shouting, Emma limp in Killian’s arms with shock.  Tremors raced up and down his own arms, tears tracking down his face unchecked.  He barely had a moment’s notice before Henry was in reach, instinct the only thing that fueled Killian to grab the boy and tuck him into his chest.  Hot tears soaked his dress shirt and Henry’s cries echoed in his ears.

“Why didn’t you save him?!  Why did you let my dad die?!”

* * *

The alarm clock’s blaring ring shot through Killian’s consciousness, jolting him from the nightmare that had plagued him every night over the last eighteen months.  Neal’s death, Emma’s hatred, his own dismissal from her team, it all paled in comparison to the tears in his heart from Henry’s anguished screams.  They’d recovered Neal’s body and that of the driver the next day, their seat belts still securing them in the vehicle.

He’d been reassigned to the Treasury twelve hours later, not even a word from Emma about it.

Not that he blamed her.

He’d failed.  Failed so utterly that he was lucky to still have a job at all.  He’d been tempted to pack it all in, flee across the pond with his tail between his legs and beg his brother for a place to crash as he grieved in private.

But the safety of Liam’s flat in London was a kindness he couldn’t afford himself.  He didn’t deserve the comfort of his only family.

Not when he’d torn Emma’s apart.

So Killian rolled himself out of bed and got dressed robotically, half-listening to the news reports about the upcoming summit between Swan’s administration and South Korea’s diplomatic entourage.

He didn’t want to imagine the logistics involved in securing _that_ meeting, but his brain helpfully supplied it anyway.

The problem with sequestering yourself away from human interaction, Killian mused idly, was that there was no one else in your apartment to tell you when the coffee can was empty.  With a growl and the slam of the cupboard, Killian clipped his weapon and his badge to his belt and stalked out the door.

He stumbled across Mary Margaret Blanchard in the closest Starbucks to work, slinking in the entryway and collapsing onto a seat next to her.  He clutched the precious caffeine to his chest, inhaling the familiar scent.

She ignored him as she perused the newspaper.

“How was your Fourth?” she finally asked, proving that she was aware of his presence and also of his mood.

“My fourth what?” he snarked, not quite saturated enough with caffeine for idle small talk.

Mary Margaret side-eyed him and shook her head.  “The Fourth of July, Hook,” she corrected, falling back on his callsign easily.  “Don’t be a jerk.”

He shrugged.  In all honesty, he’d forgotten there was even a holiday, spending most of it contemplating the bottle of rum and its ability to drown out Henry’s accusations.

To erase the memories of happier times with Emma and her family, feeling as if he actually belonged somewhere.

He’d give anything to be back on her detail, to be able to protect her and her son.

But Emma hated him now, and Henry likely did, too.

So Killian shrugged, made small talk like Mary Margaret wanted, and gauged her mood before he carefully commented, “This desk job is killing me, M’s.  I want back in.”

She sighed and nodded.  “I know you do, Jones.  We all know you made the right call on that bridge.  Even Emma knows it; she just…”

“Can’t stand the thought of me failing her again,” he cut in.

Mary Margaret glared at him.  “ _No_.  You didn’t fail, Jones, you just made an impossible decision based on the situation and your training.  Emma just needs to focus and seeing you every day would be a reminder of what she lost.  Maybe with the next President.”

Killian nodded sadly.  “I know.  How’s… how’s Henry?”

“Misses you,” she responded, surprising Killian.  “He asks about you all the time.  When he’s not giving his agents heart attacks running around the White House and hiding from them.”

Killian smirked.

“Laugh it up, Hook.  We all know who taught him that.”

He shrugged unapologetically, remembering teaching Henry all the hiding places the huge building had to offer.  Remembering how much fun it had been, and how much he’d lost that night.  How much Henry had screamed and cried in his arms.  He couldn’t quite reconcile Mary Margaret’s words about Henry with the tortured screams that haunted his nights.

The boy _missed_ him?  Henry didn’t hate him?

God, he wanted to find the boy right then and hug the stuffing out of him.

Alas, Killian had a job to get to and Mary Margaret had a team of agents to direct.  With a curt nod and a promise to “just get out of the apartment,” Killian left the Starbucks and trudged over to the Treasury building.

He lost several hours reading over briefs and filling out paperwork, the busywork not nearly exciting enough to fulfill his adrenaline needs.  He was almost in a trance when he heard it.

Explosions.

More than one and entirely too close for comfort.  Killian’s head whipped around, all traces of fatigue erased as the adrenaline began to pump through his veins.  The alarm rang through the building, more explosions in the streets, and the first sounds of panic began to reach him.  Killian didn’t think, he just moved.

Unclip his weapon.

Thumb off the safety.

Look left, look right.

Get to the danger.

He ducked and dodged around other agents, lay people, interlopers who were between him and the perceived threat.   The code that echoed in his ears frightened him, but Killian couldn’t focus on the fear.

999.

Terrorist attack.

He didn’t know exactly where, he didn’t know how, he most assuredly didn’t know who, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing did outside of his training.

Identify the threat.

Neutralize the target.

Protect the innocent.

Get to the President.

Save Henry.

Killian didn’t overthink his reactions, didn’t stop to muse on how Emma would react to seeing him, didn’t wonder on Mary Margaret’s words from earlier that day.  He didn’t have the luxury of worrying about that.

There were more explosions and now the sound of automatic gunfire on the street.

Killian ducked behind a car as a modified aircraft flew low overhead, opening fire on the civilians running in panic for their lives.  Bodies littered the sidewalks and the streets, holes ripped through them from the large bore ammunition that was raining down on them from above.  The tang of copper was heavy in the air, the smell of gunpowder and burning, well, everything, assaulting his nostrils.  More gunfire, more explosions, more screaming.  It was like the Middle East all over again, but they were on the streets at home.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here.

The aircraft made another run, strafing the street he had just turned down and throwing yet another part of the city into panic.

Killian grabbed the nearest woman who was flailing and forced her down behind the SUV he was using for cover, ignoring the screaming in his ears as he kept her pressed tightly against the metal.  The other side of the SUV exploded under the assault, and Killian knew they had little time to move.  Shoving her in front of him, he led the woman to an alcove and left her huddled and crying against the wall.  She’d be relatively safe there for the moment, and Killian needed to keep moving.

Leaving her behind, he took a side street that would lead him to Pennsylvania Avenue, where he could hear the gunfire increasing.

He had just turned the corner when-

BOOM!

The echoes that wavered through Killian made him sick to his stomach, the aftershock of the car exploding to his left shuddering through his system.  He was sprawled across the street, everything moving in slow motion and nothing making sense.

He needed to move.

Forcing his body to obey, Killian pushed shakily to his feet and checked his weapon.  The sight was wavering, but he wasn’t sure if that was damage to the hardware or to his eyes.  His head was pounding and his hand was shaking, but Killian didn’t have the luxury of time.

Keep moving.

Get to Emma.

Find Henry.

The White House came into view and Killian’s focus sighted in on the men on the front lawn trying to defend it.  There were gunmen, armored trucks full of terrorists, insurgents he needed to take out.

He had 14 bullets.

Killian opened fire with calculated precision, aim, sight, fire.

Aim, sight, fire.

He had taken out four before they realized the new threat behind him and he was forced to duck for cover again behind a nearby wall.  A bullet whizzed by his ear, the chips of granite from where it skipped past him burning the skin under his eye and making him blink away on instinct.

If he’d ducked the other way from the assault, he’d have taken a bullet to the chest.

He needed to move.

Silence.   _Was it over?_  Killian wasn’t inclined to believe it, but the minutes dragged on and people came out from hiding to gawk at the disaster strewn across the front lawn of the White House.  His adrenaline started to abate, his head coming to rest against the cold iron fence still in place.  He still needed to get inside, needed to see for himself that Emma was secure and Henry was safe.  He needed to know-

BOOM!

His head whipped to the side, dodging the crowd of people fleeing from the bus that had just exploded.

It _wasn’t_ over yet.

There were two men with backpacks just standing at the fence, still staring at the front lawn.

They weren’t fleeing.

Killian raised his weapon.

“Hey!” he shouted.  “Get down on the ground.  Now!”

The first man turned towards him, his hand wrapped around a trigger switch.

Killian took him out.

He had just sighted in on the second one when the terrorist depressed his switch and detonated.

Killian hit the ground hard, his ears ringing worse than before.

There was a great, smoking hole where the fence had been.

More men came running, automatic weapons firing as they ran, shooting indiscriminately.  Killian ducked inside the fence, his back anchored to another tree as he opened fire.

He was badly outmatched.

A ricochet nicked his shoulder, sending bright hot tendrils of pain racing down his arm and making his hand go numb for the moment.

It didn’t matter.

He had to ignore it.

If he didn’t, he was as good as dead already.

Raising his weapon shakily, Killian drew a bead on a sniper set up just outside the fence.  She was taking potshots at the Marines and the agents who were spilling out of the White House to protect it.

A bullet from Killian’s weapon silenced that threat but revealed his position.

Before he could move, another crash, this time sounding more like a car accident, jerked Killian’s attention away from the men advancing on his position.

The terrorists took more notice of it than of him slinking away, and Killian wasn’t about to look a gifthorse in the mouth.  He crawled away from the men, needing to find out what had drawn their priorities away from ending him.

One of the armored trucks had barreled through the hole in the wrought-iron fence, spilling terrorists onto the grounds and making the threat to Swan and her son all the more imminent.

Killian needed to get to their sides.

He snuck around the truck, ducking for cover as the combatants spread out and engaged the secret service agents returning fire.  He wanted to help them, wanted to fall into line, but that wasn’t his target at the moment.  These men had contingencies and plans and protocols in place - Killian had helped to tweak most of them when he was still Emma’s lead agent.  Inserting himself into their ranks would only throw things into disarray.

And as much as Killian felt for them, for the men who were falling before his eyes as he took evasive actions to get inside the building, they weren’t his priority.

They weren’t his mission.

More explosions, more bullets whizzing overhead, more chaos.

Killian took the steps three at a time, his eyes only for the protection of the front doors, guarded by men he’d assigned to their defense years ago.  A nod of acceptance was all the permission he was granted, and Killian dove behind a column, taking a single moment to catch his breath.

Control the adrenaline.

Focus on the target.

Eliminate extraneous information.

Breathe.

Focus.

Go to work.

Killian watched with clinical detachment as a man to his left slid two full clips of ammunition along the smooth ground.  He pocketed them without a thought, picking out his targets and taking them out.  His breath was coming in short pants, the trickle of blood down his cheek a warm, wet trail, the cold sweat at his back sparking tremors that increased the pounding between his ears.

He fired again.

Again.

Again.

“RPG!” a shout from his left was the only warning Killian received before the marble above him began to crumble, the cacophony reaching him moments later.  He barely made it out from under the rubble before the terrorists were on them again, weapons fire strafing the ground as he scrambled for cover.

There was a fire along his left side, the tearing of muscle from bone and the heat of lacerations distracting him momentarily from his plight.

“Help me,” a weak cry to his right.

Killian looked down, Walter was splayed out across the marble, two bullet holes neatly scoring the white of his shirt.  He grabbed at the agent’s arm, pulling him up and slinging him over his back.

“Where’s Henry?” he shouted at the agent, but got no answer.

Walter likely wouldn’t make it, not without help.  But Killian wouldn’t leave him behind if he could help it.  He stumbled under the extra weight, shouldering the burden as he staggered through cover fire to relative safety.

“I’ve got him, L-T,” a voice echoed.  Tom, one of the men from Killian’s original detachment, helped ease Walter down, applying pressure and a field dressing from his vest.

Killian squeezed Walter’s shoulder once before moving on, shaking the pessimistic thoughts from his head and ignoring the wounds to his own back on his trek towards the open doors.  He needed to get inside.  Needed to get the doors locked down and take stock.

Another grenade whistled over his head and struck the doors, crumbling the framework and crippling his plans.

Get inside.

Take stock.

Find Emma and Henry.

Save them.

Someone barreled into his side, taking them both down just inside the doorway and knocking the breath from Killian’s lungs.  He grappled with the man, trading punches and trying to gain the upper hand.  He saw stars as the man locked his throat in a vice grip, blackness starting to encroach as he struggled, strained, fought for enough room to-

His knife in hand, Killian plunged the blade up into the man’s throat and ended the fight instantly.

Two minutes later and he had the luxury of a tactical vest that he had stripped from the dead man, supplying him with another gun, more ammunition, two more blades, and a handful of field dressings.

Never mind the protection from the kevlar that he secured painfully around his torso.

The sting from open wounds faded with the adrenaline that continued to pump through his veins.  It was quiet in the building, the men, women, and children who worked and visited here on a daily basis long since fled.  His footsteps echoed through the halls as Killian stalked their lengths, alert and focused on moving forward.  He needed to get to a secure location, take better stock of the situation, and formulate a plan.

Emma would be in the bunker.  The agents assigned to her protection would have moved her at the earliest threat.

But _Henry_.

Killian had no idea where the boy had been when this all began.  His agents would have gotten to him as quickly as possible, but there was no guarantee that they were at his side if he was in the residence.

And Walter had been outside.

He needed to find out more intel.  He needed to get a bead on one of the men and figure out who was attacking them.  He needed to get to the Oval Office where there was a secure line and another weapon.

He needed to _move_.

A radio echoed down the hallway, drawing his attention.  One of the agents, calling out an SOS, a last ditch cry for aid.

“ _Storybrooke has fallen.  Storybrooke has.  Fallen.  Storybr-”_

The bullet that took him down came out of nowhere.  The impact in the middle of his back sent him sprawling, his head connecting with something solid as he fell.  He couldn’t breathe, the wind knocked completely from his lungs and the radiating pain spreading out along his ribs and down his legs.

He blacked out momentarily, long enough for his assailant to stalk down the hall and toe at his side.  Killian only had half a second to hear the intake of breath that signaled another shot was coming, and he whipped around to put a bullet in the man’s head.

Two hundred pounds of dead weight settled on his chest and Killian couldn’t fight the darkness any longer.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma’s morning started off at a rush.  She needed to meet with the Korean delegation and answer a thousand protocol questions, needed to organize a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and figure out what the hell was going on under their noses in the South China Sea.

She needed to spend more than thirty seconds with her growing son.

Emma’s heart clenched when she thought again about how difficult the last year and a half had been on the both of them.  The Fourth of July had come and gone and she’d barely seen Henry, let alone spent any time with him.  It was usually Neal who took their son to see the parade and the fireworks, Emma living vicariously through their stories long into the evening - long past Henry’s normal bedtime.

Henry had been asleep in his room before the first explosion had even gone off.

Now she was being briefed on yet another crisis that needed her immediate decision, and all Emma wanted to do was take Henry, wrap her arms around him, and squirrel him away someplace where they’d both have time to stop and heal.

Their upcoming vacation would hopefully give them both time to reset and to just talk.

She zoned back in on the briefing as the Admiral continued to outline movements designed to test the resolve of ‘his’ Navy.

Emma was only just able to bite back the sarcastic retort on the tip of her tongue - technically it was ‘her’ Navy before it was his.

But with discretion being the better part of valor, Emma kept silent until he had finished.

“Threatening the North Koreans with military action in order to force them to stand down seems like a game of chicken that I’d rather not play.”  Emma said as she leveled a hard look at her Speaker of the House.  

Regina Mills was tough as nails, sometimes too cold in a world that required a delicate touch.  Emma often had to remind the woman that a little bit of diplomacy now was better than a decisive action later that would force their hand and the future of the country.

“David?”  Emma looked for his opinion as well, knowing that sometimes her own relationship with Regina colored her opinions.

Thankfully, her Secretary of Defense seemed to agree with her.  “You’re assuming that the North Koreans would be rational and not call our bluff - which can be a dicey gamble on the best of days.”

“It wouldn’t have to be a bluff,” Regina snarked back.

Emma shook her head.  “Graham?”

The Vice President looked up from the tablet he’d been studying.  “I agree with David.  This isn’t a risk we want to take.”

“All right.  Thank you for sitting in, Madam Speaker,” Emma spoke formally, dismissing the woman without much offense.  “I won’t hold you up any longer.”

Regina rose gracefully and inclined her head.  “Good luck with your summit.”  She turned to the door.

Emma waited until she’d left, the door closing with a bit more bang than she was sure Regina intended.

She just wanted to go hang out with Henry for an hour.

When Emma was finally free, she had less than half an hour before the delegation was scheduled to arrive.  Leaving her protection detail behind, she took off at a brisk walk towards the residence, hoping to find Henry waiting for her.

He was curled up in one of the easy chairs, a book in hand and a smile on his face when he saw her.

Emma stripped off her blazer jacket, moving towards the walk-in closet to get changed while she listened to Henry explain the plot of the _Harry Potter_ book she’d gifted him for his last birthday.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding up two different scarves.

Henry pointed to the one in her left hand before giggling when she draped the other around his neck.  It had been too long since she’d heard her son’s laughter.

“Do we have to go to Camp David?” he whined, and Emma was inclined to agree with him.  “I hate it there.”

She looked over her shoulder to see the way Henry’s face had fallen.

“Can’t we go somewhere else?  The beach maybe?” he pleaded.

God, the beach sounded grand.  A few days of sun and salt and tranquility.  Maybe she could convince Kil-

No, not Killian.  He wasn’t in charge.  Not any more.

“That does sound nice,” Emma answered non-committally.  “Look, I have three minutes before they come and get me.  What say we run down to the kitchen and get some ice cream?  What kind do you want?”

Henry grinned, thoughts of Camp David forgotten.  “I’m gonna get the Rocky Road before you eat it all like _last time_.”

“I didn’t-”

“Madam President?  It’s time,” her agent called from the doorway.

Henry buried his nose back in his book.

“I’m sorry, kid,” she whispered on her way out.

Emma’s mind was still on Henry through most of the introductions.  She recognized Robert Gold - one of her former agents who had retired from government work to move to the private sector after Neal’s death.  His smile was icy, clinical with years of field work, and usually Emma wouldn’t have paid it any mind.

But then the explosions rocked the very ground under her feet and Emma had no more time to think.

_Henry_.

Emma was being rushed to the safety of the bunker, her agents ignoring every shouted plea for someone to find her son.  She was half-aware of tugging along the Korean diplomat, Gold and another man tight to his side as they ran.  Gunfire echoed through the grounds and in the hallways and Emma’s heart was in her throat.

Henry was alone in the residence.

Her eleven-year old son was all alone and there were bullets and bombs and men who intended to do them all harm flying around the White House.

“Find Henry!” she shouted again and again.  “Find my son!”

Someone spoke into a wrist-mic, “I need location on Believer, ASAP.”

Emma’s head whipped around at her son’s codename.

The agent shook his head.  “As soon as I know, ma’am, you’ll know.”

Emma’s heart ran cold as the bunker doors locked down with a final ‘CLANG’.

Henry was out there somewhere.

And Killian wasn’t around to save him.

Emma waited impatiently as protocols were set in motion and the Pentagon was contacted.  A feed had just been established when gunfire erupted again.

_Inside the bunker._

Emma’s head whipped around just in time to see the last of her agents fall to the ground, the smell of gunpowder assaulting her and the sight of Gold’s weapon pointed between her eyes.

* * *

 

The muffled sounds of a Korean dialect filtered through Killian’s consciousness, but he didn’t move.  They were close by and he was vulnerable, still pinned down and out in the open where he’d fallen.  He couldn’t understand what they were saying, his years learning the language only helpful when his ears weren’t ringing and the adrenaline wasn’t playing chicken with his level of consciousness.  The only movement he made was to tighten his finger over the trigger.  Against protocol, sure, but he wasn’t taking a chance.

The voices faded down the hallway and Killian relaxed a fraction.  Another moment to gather his strength and he finally managed to slide out from under the body pinning him.

He was covered in blood, hurt all over, and couldn’t pay it any mind.

He had to get to the Oval Office.

Killian limped down the hall, shaking his head to clear the fog as he went.  Up the stairs and down another hallway and so many twists and turns that if he wasn’t moving completely on instinct, he likely would have gotten lost.

The door to the office was closed, whole, and untouched.

He cleared the room, relieved to see it empty and safe.

Killian breathed a sigh of relief as he locked the door behind him.  There was a moment to rest and regroup before he took stock of his surroundings. There was an old dress shirt of Neal’s hanging in the closet where the President’s safe was housed.  The blood that saturated his own shirt was beginning to dry and stiffen the material so that it was impractical to move in.  He stripped off the vest and ruined clothing, balling up the fabric and wiping away as much of the blood from his chest as possible.

There was a litany of bruises and lacerations crossing his skin, but nothing that would disable him and nothing that he could fix currently.  So he shrugged on the new shirt and put them out of his mind.

A few twists to the combination lock and the safe opened under his touch.  One more gun - and far more importantly a satellite phone - were dragged out and Killian all but collapsed into Emma’s desk chair a moment later.

He dialed the phone number from memory, breathing out a guarded sigh of relief when the signal went through.

It rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

“Mr. President?” the voice on the line was familiar, but distorted over the signal.

Killian shook his head before he could help himself.  “Negative,” he answered.

“Identify yourself.”

“Echelon four.”

A pause.  “Designator?”

Thank God.  That voice he knew.  Mary Margaret.

“Jolly Roger.”

Mary Margaret’s sharp gasp.  “Hook?!  Where are you?”

“I’m in the Oval Office.”  He bit back a groan as he shifted and the tactical vest rubbed against his back.  There was definitely a burn there looking for attention that he wasn’t going to give it.  “Is the President in the bunker?”

_God_ , he thought, _please let one thing have gone right today._

“She-”

The line cut off and Killian’s heart leapt into his throat.  Had he been discovered?  Had the phone died?  Had the terrorists found some way to scramble the secure line?

“Yes,” Mary Margaret’s voice settled him when she returned minutes later.  “The President is secure in the bunker.  But Killian, she’s being held hostage.”

A shudder ripped through him.  “Who’s in charge out there?”

“Mills,” another clipped voice answered him.

_Great_ , he thought idly.  His last meeting with Regina Mills had ended when he’d told her to do something that shouldn’t be repeated in polite company.

He continued to report the situation to the Pentagon, trying to remain detached and get the information to the proper authorities as concisely as possible.

“Henry?  What about Henry?”  He couldn’t hold out any longer.  He couldn’t help Emma at the moment, but if her son was still in the building, Killian would move mountains to find him and save him.

Or he’d die trying.

“We don’t have a status on him, but he’s presumed to be inside.”

Killian looked down at the school photo he’d found in the tactical vest moments before.  “Well, they’re looking for him.  God only knows what they want, but it’s a good bet it’s to try and force Emma’s… the President’s hand.”

There was a commotion over the phone and Killian did his best to wait for orders.  He was itching to move, to find Henry, to get him out.

“All right, Jones.  Stay put.”

“Sir,” he pleaded with her.  “I’m boots on the ground.  Use me.”

“We’ll get back to you, Hook.  Stay with the line.”

The signal cut out and Killian fumed.   _Bloody useless politicians and their red tape.  Got to cross all the ‘t’s’ and-_

The door burst open and a men followed.  Killian dove for cover behind the desk, on his hands and knees watching the feet move carefully into the room.  The sound of gunfire would no doubt draw more men to the room, and Killian needed the element of surprise on his side for as long as possible.  

* * *

 

Emma glared defiantly at the man who’d once been on her husband’s security detail.  He smirked, then grabbed her by the scarf and tried to yank her off her feet.  When she stumbled but didn’t fall, Gold punched her in the sternum and then grabbed her by the throat.  He pulled her slowly towards him, squeezing until Emma’s legs began to buckle underneath her.  He only let go when she finally hit the floor, leaving her gasping for air and struggling to sit up.

People around her were screaming.

David was sitting next to her, trying to help her regain her balance.

_Where was Henry?_

_Was he safe?_

And then, a thought she had no business thinking - _Would Killian come for them?_

The other man who’d been in charge of the Korean diplomat’s security detail stepped forward, a cold smile on his face that shot a bolt of pure, unadulterated fear through her.  This man was the most dangerous one in the room.

“Who are you?” she sneered.  He wasn’t Korean, that much she knew.

The man smirked, but didn’t say a word to her.  He only nodded to one of his subordinates, watching as the man grabbed her and put a gun to her head.

_Oh God, please don’t let them record this.  Please don’t let Henry see it._

Emma shut her eyes, determined not to let any of the other members of her staff see the fear that was gripping her heart.  If she were going to die here, she wanted to keep her dignity.

It might be all she had left.

There was a bit of a commotion to her left, and Emma cracked open an eye to see Gold manhandling Minister Lee in front of the camera that connected them to the Pentagon.

Then she was dragged behind him.

“Minister Lee?  Sir, are you safe?”  Emma couldn’t picture the man who was speaking, but she recognized the voice as one of the Chiefs of Staff - maybe Army?  She didn’t really have time to think about it.

“Are you with the President?” he asked.  “Sir?  Can you hear-”

Gold put a bullet through the minister’s head.

Emma wanted to scream, but she didn’t have time before she, too, was marched in front of the camera.

_Please, God, don’t let Henry ever see this._

“Don’t negotia-” she was cut off and dragged out of sight.

The dangerous terrorist - she heard one of his men call him Hades - stepped in front of the screen.  “I have your Commander-in-Chief.  Now stand down.”

“Who are you?”

“The man in control of your White House.  Now stand your men down.”

_Don’t do it_ , she muttered angrily in her head.   _Take these bastards out_.

“Stand down!” she heard the general shout.

Emma was tossed against David, her back connecting painfully with the step behind her.  She glared at the Korean, but then Gold squatted down in front of her, his gun pointed between her eyes again.

“How could you do this?” she wondered out loud, not really expecting an answer.  Her entire body was shaking, adrenaline and fear and relief that she hadn’t been killed already warring for dominance within her.

_God, please let Henry be safe.  Please let Killian come and find him_.

Emma swore that if she made it out of this, her first order of business was going to be to find him, apologize, and reinstate him to the head of her and Henry’s security details.

She needed him here for this.

“Put your hands up,” Gold ordered, waving the gun at the railing above her head.

Emma sneered back at him.  “Screw you.”

Gold didn’t get angry, he didn’t hit her or shoot her or any of the things Emma expected him to do.

He simply nodded to his side and the same man who had manhandled her in front of the camera moved towards the group of staff members huddled in another corner of the room.  Emma watched, terrified now, as he grabbed the staff nurse - Ghorm? - and yanked her forward.

The nurse was crying.

Emma, David, and Graham were all shouting.

Admiral Grump was swearing.

“No!”  Emma screamed when Gold turned his head and nodded.

It was over in an instant, the nurse sprawled across the floor with a bullet in her head and her blood on the floor.

If Emma wasn’t sure that her entire body had turned into a quivering puddle of furious goo, she’d have gotten to her feet and pummeled Gold.

But she was simply too angry and too terrified to react.

“There’s a reason I never voted for you,” Gold stated, as if he hadn’t just orchestrated the murder of an innocent woman.  Then he pointed the gun at David and cocked it.

Emma’s hands rose immediately, docile and waiting to be shackled to the railing.

She couldn’t lose David, too.

Everyone around them was still screaming, but Emma had gone numb to it all.  She watched, detached, as the rest of her senior staff were all shackled to the same railing.  She trained her eyes on the other hostages who were herded into a corner and zip tied together.  She prayed to a god she wasn’t sure was watching to save them.

To save her son.

To save her if he had the time left over.

The Koreans spoke their native language to each other, conversing about whatever nefarious deeds they were planning, Emma was sure.  It didn’t matter.  None of it did at the moment because she was helpless.  Useless.  Not even able to protect her son, never mind the entire country and the free world.

“Bring Miss Swan here,” their leader demanded a short time later.

Emma felt her hands untied and was hoisted to her feet and up the steps to stand in front of him.

Next to one of her men, the computer nicknamed ‘the football’ - the one that housed the country’s nuclear codes - lay abandoned.

Emma’s blanched.

“I have no interest in your nuclear codes,” he told her conversationally.  “Your Pentagon will have already changed them.  No?”

She’d forgotten.  Yes.  The codes were already changed and safe.

Then she was forced into an office chair in front of one of the computers.  What did they expect her to do there?  Emma could just about handle word processing - she had staff that made the computers work.

Or Henry, if it came down to it.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked again.  “You’re not Korean, and you’re certainly not representing South Korea if you are.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he told her.  And then spouted North Korean propaganda at her that explained nothing.

“It’s a whole new world, dearie,” Gold sneered from behind her.

_Gold_.  How the hell was he caught up in all of this?  How could he betray their country like this?

“What’s the going rate for a soul these days?” she threw over her shoulder at him.  “I never would have taken you for a traitor.”

_That_ had pissed him off.  “I’m no less a traitor than you are, dearie,” he yelled.

_He’s delusional._

Emma’s level of fear ratcheted up another notch.  If he thought she was a traitor for helping globalize their economy, then he couldn’t be reasoned with.

They were all going to die.

“What’s it cost to buy a presidency nowadays, anyway?” he mused.

They were all going to die.

Gold had leaned in, telling her how he was a rookie at treason compared to her when Emma struck.

She butted her head forward, slamming her forehead into hers and taking sweet satisfaction in watching him stumble and fall.

“Gotta keep your gloves up, Gold,” she taunted, ignoring the ringing in her ears from the blow she’d landed.

Gold recovered quickly, grabbing her and pulling his weapon.

“Enough!” the other man yelled.  “We need her.  For now.”

That scared Emma far more than Gold’s wrath ever would.

And then her blood froze in her veins as Hades turned away and spoke in Korean.  She picked out one word.

“Henry.”

_Henry?_

“What the hell do you want with my _son_?” she hissed, livid.

He didn’t answer her, of course.  Only smirked.

Emma listened dispassionately as he spoke with Regina, listing out his demands and spewing more political nonsense and vague threats on her life and the lives of her staff before cutting the feed once more.

“The United States of America doesn’t negotiate with terrorists,” she spat at him.

Then.  Oh, then.  Then Emma started to really fear for the future if his plans came to fruition.

“Who said anything about negotiating?” he asked, waving a switchblade knife about before moving down the line of her senior staff.

They were screaming.  Everyone from Graham to David to Ruby.

He finally pointed to Leroy, watching disinterestedly as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was maneuvered to kneel in front of him, Leroy’s head forced against a chair.

Oh God, they were going to kill him in front of her.  Had it really only been that morning that she’d wanted to tear into him for calling it _his_ Navy?  She’d let him get away with the misogyny for the foreseeable future if only he wasn’t murdered.

The knife rested at Leroy’s throat, the man holding him down by the hair.  “Admiral Grump, your Cerberus code, please.”

The number and severity of the curses that ran through Emma’s head would have made her parents blush - if she’d ever had any.

No one was supposed to know about Cerberus.  No one except those with the highest classification statuses.

Definitely not Gold.

And not this man, either.  So how did he know?

Leroy just stared at her, and Emma knew he’d die before betraying her.

“You kill him, you won’t get the code.” she assured.

He nodded at her, but he wasn’t agreeing.

“I won’t ask again.”  He dug the knife deeply into Leroy’s neck, finally pulling a gasp from the man, but nothing more.

Emma glared.

Leroy stared at her.

The knife bit in deeper, and Leroy groaned.

Emma could see the blood beginning to trickle down onto the seat of the chair.

Cerberus couldn’t be activated without all three codes, so it wouldn’t matter if they couldn’t get hers.

Leroy wouldn’t break.  Emma knew that as surely as she knew that the bastards doing this would never get her code.

And then Leroy cried out, the knife starting to do real damage.

He’d never give up, but that didn’t mean she had to watch Leroy die in front of her.  Not when there was something she could do.

“Give it to him, Leroy,” she ordered.

“Yes, sir.”  Leroy didn’t hesitate after that.  He glared, but he dutifully spit out his code, with a voice so hoarse that Emma worried his vocal chords had been damaged.

Anatomy wasn’t her strong suit in school, but it didn’t make a difference.  

Leroy never took his eyes off of Emma.

* * *

 

Killian waited until the opportune moment, leaping out from his hiding spot and cutting the man off at the knees.  Both weapons clattered across the floor as the men hit the ground, Killian only just managing to stay on top of his assailant.

The man rolled and thrashed, managing to get some purchase underneath him when Killian locked an arm around his throat.  He held on tight when the man rose, struggling to get a grip on the hair atop the man’s head for leverage.

His back collided with the wall, knocking the wind from him and lighting up the burn on his back, but Killian still held on.

Teeth sunk into his forearm, fingers scrabbled to get hold of his wrist or his own fingers, an elbow drove back into his sternum.

Killian gasped his way through the pain, holding on for dear life for as long as he could.

But then the man ducked and rolled and Killian found himself tossed against the desk, body scrambling to stand before he’d even registered the movement.

A knife sliced his thigh, and he used the pain to his advantage.

Focus.

Draw in the enemy.

Use his momentum against him.

A minute later and it was all over.  Killian’s own knife buried to the hilt in the man’s neck, a look of shock still on the Korean face, even in the last throes of death.

Killian slumped to the ground.

There was a tattoo that he didn’t recognize behind the man’s ear, and he snapped a picture of it with the satellite phone.

“Blanchard?” he spoke into the phone as soon as the ringing stopped.  I’ve got a commando here with something that might identify the group.”

“Is he alive?”

Killian shook his head in disbelief, even though he knew she couldn’t see it.  “Ask me a serious question.”

There was a murmur in the background and Killian tried to wait patiently.

“No one recognizes it.”

“Bloody hell,” he swore.  “Well, whoever they are, they’re good.  They’re well trained and bloody well organized.  But I guess you know that already.  What do they want?”

Secretary Mills spoke up.  “They want us to recall the fleet and pull our troops out of the DMZ.”

“Well isn’t that fan-bloody-tastic.”

Mary Margaret didn’t respond to that.  “There’s more though, Killian.  NORAD just reported that a Cerberus code has been entered.  There’s only two more and they’ll have gotten what they want.”

_Cerberus_?  What on Earth was that?

He asked.

And was summarily told that it was classified.

Killian almost burst out laughing.   _Classified_?  He was sitting in the Oval Office with more guns than he wanted to think about strapped to him, and an army of commandos between him and the President.

“I think I have the proverbial need to bloody know.  Sir.”

It was a missile failsafe system, apparently.  One that would render the entire country useless if someone, say North Korea, launched their own nuclear weapons at them.  With this group in charge of Cerberus, they could detonate any of the ICBM’s that were fired back without consequence.

And the codes could only be changed through the self-contained system.

That was in the bunker with Emma.

“Bloody hell!” he swore again.  “Who has the codes?”

He wasn’t surprised at the answer.  “The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the Secretary of Defense, and President Swan.”

His head dropped back against the desk where he was still slumped.  “Well, now we know why they want Henry.”

Emma was as stubborn as they came.  And she was far more loyal to the country than she was to her own life.  Even if they got the other two codes - and Emma would order the men to give them up to save their lives - the terrorists would never get hers.

Not unless they put a gun to Henry’s head.

Secretary Mills was explaining just that to him.  “President Swan will hold out to the end, but if they get Henry.  If they can threaten him in front of her…”

“No one hold up under those circumstances,” Mary Margaret muttered.  Killian’s memory flashed to Blanchard’s own son, and he didn’t have to try to hard to think about what she was imagining at the moment.

“Jones,” Mills barked.  “Find Henry.  He’s your first priority.  Get him out of there.  Then we’ll see where we’re at.”

_Thank the bloody gods_ , he thought idly, his heart unclenching a little at the explicit permission to do what he’d ached to accomplish since finding out Emma was unreachable.

“Yes, sir,” he agreed, cutting off the line.

Find Henry.

Save Henry.

Move.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mr. Gold,” the terrorist barked, interrupting the staredown Emma had been sure she was winning with the former member of her protection detail.  “Who is this man?”

He said something else in Korean, but she didn’t pay any attention to it.  The last few moments were playing on a dizzying, endless loop in her head.

Henry.

Cerberus.

Leroy.

_Henry_.

Gold’s betrayal.

They wanted _Henry!_

She and David had the other two codes.

Henry was out there.

She couldn’t watch them kill David any more than she could Leroy.

But David might not listen to her orders if he thought it would protect her.

Henry was alone in the White House and there were armed men searching for her little boy.

She needed-

“Killian Jones,” Gold said incredulously.

_Was he a God damned mind-reader now, too?_

“And who might that be?”

Gold scoffed.  “He used to guard the President until he got cocky.  Lost the First Husband and got himself reassigned to a desk.”

Emma’s heart clenched a little bit.   _She_ had done that to him, and now she was hoping and praying that Killian was going to forget about that and save her son.  And maybe her, too.  She didn’t really have to think too hard about that one.   _Of course_ he was there, and _of course_ he was going to rescue Henry.  That’s what he did.  He was a damned bonafide knight in shining (standard issue body-) armor hero, and she had been blinded by her grief when she tore out his heart and stomped on it.

She’d never even thanked him for saving her life that night.  For watching Henry when she couldn’t even manage breathing without collapsing in a puddle of uselessness.  For standing at attention when she tore him apart for doing his damned job, and doing it well.  Emma _should_ have pinned a medal on his chest and made sure the entire world knew how good of a man he was.

Instead, she’d made him feel worthless and ignored his very existence for the past year and a half, despite Henry begging her to reinstate him.

She needed to survive this if only to apologize to them both.

“Are we worried about him?” the terrorists’ leader asked Gold.

“Not at all.”

Emma wanted to fall out of her chair laughing.  “You should be,” was all she muttered under her breath.

Hades nodded towards Gold.  “Go.  Find him.   _End_ him.”

There was a moment where Gold looked hesitant, but then nodded and left the bunker.  Emma paled at the implication - Killian wouldn’t know that Gold was a threat, he might even trust the man to watch his back as he led him right to Henry.

_No_ , she thought.  Killian was smarter than that.  He’d figure Gold out even more quickly than Emma had.  He and Henry would be safe.

And Gold wouldn’t be a threat much longer.

There was a woman at Cerberus’ computer, typing more quickly than Emma could follow, but it didn’t _seem_ to be doing any damage - yet.  Still, she watched as fingers flew over the keyboard, praying endlessly for something to happen.

And then she was manhandled back to David’s side and left there to wonder what would happen next.

She didn’t have long to wait.

* * *

 

Killian didn’t have to think too hard about where he should start looking for Henry.  If the boy wasn’t hiding in his mother’s room, he would be in his own or in one of the spots Killian had shown him for just such a situation.  Not that he’d ever dreamed Henry _would_ be in danger like this, but he hadn’t survived war and the last few minutes - hours? - by not being overly prepared for every situation.

It was eerily quiet in the halls, his own footsteps echoing loudly in his ears and making his blood pressure skyrocket.  Every foreign sound drew his attention, every odd shadow and stray flash of light inspected lest he be caught unaware.  There were bodies littering the hallways even here, men and women that he knew as well as strangers who had been caught in the building.  So much senseless death that needed to be atoned for, that _he_ needed to ignore so he could focus on the mission.

_Believer_.

Henry’s designation, and the only person who mattered at the moment.

Killian ducked into a computer lab, logging on efficiently with one hand aiming his weapon on the door.  He shut down the surveillance cameras while he had the opportunity, not wanting the terrorists to follow him right to the First Son.

He’d never forgive himself for that.

Moving on, Killian took the stairs two at a time, senses thrown outwards and subconsciously monitoring the changes that had been made by the insurgents - the power was off, the air vents were clearly shut down, there were lasers across the windows attached to C4 blocks, no one moved through the halls.

It was exactly how he’d plot to take down the building, how he’d cause exactly this kind of chaos if it were up to him.

Killian shuddered thinking about who could have done this.

Finally entering the residential area of the White House, he slowed down and cleared each room.  So many guest quarters and lounges and offices, he’d known, had studied it, but had never _really_ understood just how many places someone could hide here - even if they didn’t know the layout as well as he and Henry did.

As expected, the boy wasn’t in any of the rooms he cursorily searched.  Not that Killian was surprised, Henry was smarter than that.

And also only a kid.

He was scared, he was alone, and he’d want the familiar.

He’d want his mom.

Killian finally ducked into Henry’s room, searching under the bed and in the closet, behind curtains and between the dresser and the television stand.

He wasn’t there.

Nor was he in Emma’s bedroom, though Killian checked this even more thoroughly, assuming the boy would have come here.

Where was Henry?

He moved back out into the hall, letting his instincts guide him back through the rooms he’d already cleared.  Killian heard voices echoing down the hall and he ducked into the nearest room - the Lincoln bedroom.  Memories assaulted him as he crossed the threshold - playing cops and robbers in here with Henry on the boy’s first few nights in the White House, when his parents were busy making speeches and eating fancy dinners across town.

He hadn’t known Emma well back then, and Neal hadn’t trusted him yet, so he’d stepped back, letting the men who had been assigned to the previous President accompany the couple while he got to know their son.

The minute he remembered Henry telling him he trusted Killian that night - in between roughhousing and starting to teach the boy about what it meant to be so important in the eyes of the public - Killian knew.

Henry would be hiding here.

Killian had cleared the room before, but he had done so looking for threats, not Henry.  In here, he knew, there were plenty of spots to hide that the bastards from Korea wouldn’t know about.

In here, you could hide _in_ the walls.

Killian heard the men from minutes ago coming closer, not doing anything to hide their approach.  If Henry _wasn’t_ here, Killian was in trouble.  But he couldn’t help the boy if he were dead, and he was almost positive he was right.

He ducked into a hidden passageway, disguised by wainscotting, just moments before the men burst into the bedroom.

* * *

 

More words in Korean, more reasons for Emma to be afraid.  

Henry was alone.

Killian would find him.

“Did Truman gut the White House interior in 1948 or ‘49?” Hades asked, pondering out loud.  “I believe it was ‘49.  Steel frame over the old stone walls, yes?”

Emma blanched.  Killian had been the one to tell her that - after a new, panicked agent had interrupted her meeting with the blasted _Pope_ of all people to alert her to Henry’s disappearance.

It was the first of many such incidents, and Emma had learned quickly that if it wasn’t Killian telling her that her son was missing, he was definitely playing hide-and-seek in those walls.

The ones that, apparently, Hades knew about.

_Please, God, let Killian have found him already._

The terrorist ordered something into his walkie-talkie, and Emma didn’t need to speak the language to understand that her son’s hiding spot wasn’t quite so safe anymore.

* * *

 

The latch snicked shut, and Killian froze, getting his bearings and also assessing whether or not his enemies had seen him disappear.  When they didn’t immediately flock to the wall, he padded stealthily away from what had once been a fireplace, holding his breath.

His weapon still pointed high, just in case, Killian listened for anything out of the ordinary.

There.

Quiet, terrified breaths.

Killian rounded the corner warily, the light from his gun leading the way.

“Henry,” he breathed out - barely audible.

Bright, tear-filled eyes met his own and Henry leapt from his crouch to wrap his arms around Killian’s neck.  Hot tears soaked the shirt Killian was wearing, and minute tremors wracked Henry’s entire frame, but he was safe, he was in Killian’s arms, and he was whole.

Hot tears pricked Killian’s own eyes, but he forced them back.  This wasn’t the time for relief.  

Henry wasn’t safe yet.

He gave the boy another moment of comfort before he pulled back, crouching down and steadying Henry against the stone wall that provided some safety should one of the terrorists open fire on the bedroom’s walls.

“Shh,” he cautioned, relieved when Henry nodded silently.

“Are you okay?” Killian asked, needing the assurance that his young charge was unharmed.

Henry nodded vehemently, almost too quickly, as if he were convincing himself.

_Brave lad_.

“I see this is still your favorite hiding place, aye?” he asked, pulling out the satellite phone to update the Pentagon.

Henry grinned.  “You taught it to me.”

He nodded, then held up one finger to signal the boy to wait.

“I’ve got Believer,” he whispered into the phone when the line connected.

He heard the sighs and cheers of relief - and so did Henry, if his grin was anything to go by.

“Finally,” Mary Margaret crowed, “some good news.”

Killian agreed.  “He’s safe.  I’m bringing him out.”

“What about my mom?” Henry asked when he hung up the phone.

Killian reassured him with what he hoped weren’t lies as he promised to protect Emma, that she would be okay.

And then he heard movement behind him.  He didn’t know how, but he _knew_ they were about to be discovered.  They needed to move, and _now_.  Killian didn’t take a moment to contemplate, just grabbed Henry and started pushing him down the passageway with one hand, shooting behind him with the other.

He’d made it three steps when white hot pain lanced through his side, just under the vest.  It stole his breath and his steps.  Killian stumbled into the wall, pulling Henry with him to keep him shielded.  He reached shakily for his back, his hand probing until he found the bullet wound in his left side.  His fingers came away hot and sticky, the smell of blood heavy in the confined space.

“Killian!”  Henry cried quietly, his own little hand coming up to Killian’s stomach where the bullet had torn out of him.  How it had missed Henry was a miracle he didn’t want to think too hard about.

Through and through.  Needed aid but not immediately.

Henry was still the priority.

“We need to move,” he commanded, whether to himself or the boy, he didn’t know.

Slowly, surely, he pulled Henry down the passageway, limping with every step and cursing under his breath.  He was the only one here that could help, could save Henry.  He needed to keep moving.

The pain numbed as he forced himself to ignore it, his fingers tight in Henry’s shirt as he kept them moving.  A door loomed ahead and Killian knocked it open, falling to his back and aiming both back the way they had come and to the open hallway to his left.

No one was there.

Henry was on his knees next to Killian, pushing on the bullet wound and trying to stop the bleeding.  It fanned the flames in his side and tore a groan from his lips.

“It’ll keep, Henry,” he admonished.  “We need to move.”

Henry nodded, but the tears in his eyes were back.

“Are you ready to run, lad?”

Henry nodded again, clutching Killian’s hand tightly in his own.

They ran, Killian practically dragging Henry down hallways and stairs with far less stealth than he’d mounted them.  He had a plan.  Admittedly, it was fuzzy at the moment since he was mostly running on adrenaline and instinct - but it didn’t change the fact that his mission remained.

Save Henry.

Worry about Emma.

Save her.

Then, maybe, if he were still functioning, get some help for himself.

Killian burst through a doorway, gun cocked and ready, only to be met with more silence.

_Perfect._

He pulled Henry along behind him, stumbling down the stairs into a basement and hoping that the vent here wasn’t sealed shut.  It was an old ventilation shaft, not attached to the newer heating system, and led straight up and outside.

“Okay, lad,” he instructed, reaching up for the grate.  “I need you to watch my six.  Can you do that?”

Henry nodded, but didn’t take his eyes off the vent.  “How are you going to fit in there?  It’s too small!”

He ignored the boy for the moment, reaching out to Mary Margaret to ensure there would be Marines, agents, the whole damn National Guard if he could swing it, waiting on the other side to get Henry to safety.

“Killian!” Henry cried again.

He turned to the boy.

Henry’s bright, imploring eyes broke his heart.  The poor kid was still terrified, all dirty from the passageways and covered in blood.  Killian’s blood.

“You’re coming with me, right?” he pleaded.

Killian crouched down, holding Henry tightly and looking directly in his eyes.  “I still have to go get your mom,” he reminded him.

Henry didn’t look convinced, eyeing the blood on Killian’s shirt.

“Look, it’s going to be okay.  It’s just like I taught you on the Rose Garden wall, yeah?  The chimney climb?”

“Yeah,” he croaked.

Killian nodded.  He could do this.   _They_ could do this.

“Killian?” Henry pleaded.

He smiled reassuringly.

“I’m _scared_.”

“I am, too,” he allowed.  Killian knocked Henry’s chin gently, then reached for the badge he’d clipped to his belt earlier that day.  Before everything had gone to Hell.

“Here,” he directed Henry’s attention to it.  “This is yours now, you’ve earned it.  You’re one of us.  So I need you to be brave for me, aye?”

Henry’s fingers curled over the metal and he resolutely clipped it to his own pants.

“Okay, good man.  Up you get, yeah?  One foot on the front, one on the back and all the way up.”  He lifted Henry into his arms, stifling a cry as best he could at the insult to his side.

Henry scrambled into the vent and started to climb up, his eyes never leaving Killian’s.

“Believer is on his way up,” he chirped into the phone.

Voices.

Korean.

“Henry,” he hissed.  “Freeze.”

All noise stopped above him, and Killian moved away from the vent.  He ducked behind some boxes and waited, holding his breath, as one of the terrorists moved steadily down the stairs and directly for the open hole in the wall.

Killian started moving forward just as the man looked inside, and he could see the instant Henry was discovered.

He pounced before the alarm could be raised, wrapping his arm around the man’s neck and squeezing.

The man fought, elbowing him in the side and writhing, but Killian ignored it all, trying to maneuver his hands so he could snap the neck and be done with him.  It took longer than he’d like, but eventually he heard it, and his target slumped to the ground, lifeless.

“Go, Henry. Go!”

Killian sagged against the wall, holding his side tightly and riding out the pain as he waited, heart in his throat.  It seemed to take an eternity, and he strained to hear any sound coming down the ventilation shaft, any indication that Henry had been found by their men or, God forbid, the terrorists outside.  He was starting to wonder if he could even make it up the shaft after Henry if something happened, if his side would tolerate the -

“Believer received.”

Killian nearly wept in relief.

“Good job, Jones,” Mills cut in over the obvious cheering in the room where she was.  “Now let’s see if we can get the President out?”

“Aye, sir,” he acknowledged the order with relish.   _Now_ , he could go find Emma.

Killian _forgot_ to mention the sluggishly bleeding wounds in his side.

It didn’t matter.  He’d get to one of the first aid stations and pack the wound, keep himself functionable enough to keep moving.  There were caffeine tablets in the kits and that would have to suffice for now.

He found the station easily enough, biting back a grimace as the gooey substance filled the holes and stopped the bleeding.  Gauze taped over the wounds kept the stuff where it was and while he knew it was only a stopgap, Killian would take what he could get.

He was expendable.  Emma wasn’t.

The Pentagon needed to know more, they needed to know who had taken over the White House and how many men were still inside.  As he moved, he kept a mental tally of the dead insurgents, trying to gauge how many more he’d have to deal with.

He needed to find someone alive in order to force them to reveal the information he needed.  It didn’t take long.  One man, then two, fell under his attacks, duct taped and tied to chairs in one of the offices.  Killian hated this part of the job, didn’t think he’d ever have to deal with it again after he’d left the Armed Services, but he’d deal with that later, too.

Fear.  That was the only tactic these bastards were likely to understand.  Killian steeled himself and ignored the pull at his conscience when he stuck his knife through one of the men’s throats, killing him instantly and terrifying his other victim.

“Who’s your boss?” he hissed, brandishing the knife in front of the remaining man.

Gregory Hades.  Imported head of a paramilitary organization in North Korea who were known only for their brutal tactics and their love for dramatic showings.

Taking down the White House and taking Emma and her staff hostage certainly qualified.

Killian killed the other man quickly, ignoring the stab of regret - unarmed or not, this man had killed dozens of people in the last few hours and had signed his fate before Killian had ever caught him.  He cleaned the blood off his knife, sheathing it and checking on the wounds in his side.  He needed to rest, wanted to curl up in a corner and let unconsciousness take him, but there was still work to do.  A quick call to update the Pentagon later, and Killian was on the move again.

Every step felt like there was a hot poker digging into his side, the pain radiating down his leg and making him use the wall for support every few steps.  He forced himself forward, his senses thrown as far outwards as he could and that’s when he heard it.  

Footsteps.

Killian ducked into an alcove, counting the cadence of the steps and breathing quietly as he waited.  Whoever was coming down the hall wasn’t slowing down, so Killian waited.

Waited.

Pounced.

He grabbed the man by the collar, dragging him into the alcove and slamming him up against the wall.  Killian brought his gun up to level between the man’s eyes, hammer cocked and ready to fire.

“Gold?!” he exclaimed in pure disbelief.  He’d almost shot the one man in the building who was free and on his side.  “What the bloody _hell_ are you doing here?”

* * *

 

It wasn’t long before Hades grew tired of watching Killian on the monitors the woman had restarted.  Emma heard him speaking over the radio, taunting Jones with his perceived failures, and she scoffed.  Killian Jones had never failed at anything in his-

“Maybe I owe you for giving me the chance to make up for that failure today.”

Jones thought he’d failed her?  God, she was going to have a long discussion with him about the pitfalls of his job when he got them out of this.

“I admire you for acknowledging your failure. But…”

Emma tuned him out.  She wasn’t going to listen to the lies that Hades tried to fill Jones’s head with.  She was just going to have to beat them out of him later.

“...looking for Henry?  You can stop wasting your men on that.  He’s already on his way to storytime.”

_Storytime?_  Emma’s heart soared.  That was a message for _her_.  Henry was safe; Killian had found him and gotten him to safety.  Tears stung the corners of her eyes and Emma bit them back harshly.  Her baby was okay.  And that meant Killian was coming for her, next.

“How’s your brother, Killian?” Hades ignored the information about Henry.  “Liam Jones, I believe.  All the way over in England, yes?    You take after him, don’t you?  Following in his footsteps trying to protect the world’s most powerful men and women.  Bet he’s not too proud of you, now.  Couldn’t be bothered to take you in after your fall from grace, could he?  Some big brother.”

Emma seethed.  She’d met Liam Jones a few times; the man was as loyal to - and protective of - his little brother as they came.

Killian’s laughter over the radio settled Emma.  Hades may be trying to get inside Jones’s head, but he’d picked the wrong way to go about it.

“I’ll be sure to let him know how little you thought of him when we’re laughing about how pathetic you are next time I see him,” Killian retorted.  “You’re just another bad story to share.”

The line went dead.

Emma looked over to David, sharing a conspiratorial smirk.  He, too, had heard the code words come over the radio, and knew that it was only a matter of time.

Then Hades was standing behind him and men were moving to drag him from Emma’s side.  She struggled to rise, not knowing how she’d protect him but knowing she needed to try.  One of Hades’s men grabbed her by the throat and slammed her back against the railing, his fist colliding with her cheek and making Emma see stars.  Ears ringing, ground tilting alarmingly, she slumped back to the ground, praying harder than she’d ever done before that David wasn’t the next casualty.

David was struggling, cursing, and fighting as he was dragged up before Hades.  They let him loose at the man’s command and he stood defiantly in the face of the terrorist.

“Mister Secretary,” he said genially, “your Cerberus code.”

“No,” David hissed.

Emma heard the blow that knocked him to the ground, but couldn’t see who delivered it.  He landed right by Emma’s head, the stubborn look in his eyes tinged with pain.

“David,” she pleaded, not ready to see what would happen next.

He shook his head before the men were on him, punching, kicking, stomping as he tried to bite back cries with each blow.  Emma could smell the blood, hear the force the men were exerting, see the strikes as they continued to fall.

“Please,” she begged, unsure of who she was really pleading to.

Hades raised his hand and the beating stopped immediately.

“Your code,” he demanded quietly.

But David just shook his head and locked gazes with Emma.  “No.”

Hades kicked him in the ribs so hard that he tumbled off the platform he’d been laying on.  The beating started again and David couldn’t keep silent this time.

Emma was even louder than he was, trying to get anyone’s attention.  Trying to save his life.  She wasn’t used to being ignored.

David was wheezing, the blood dripping from his mouth, his nose, his eyebrow.  The hard look hadn’t left his eyes, but it was muted in face of the agony he couldn’t hide from her.

“Give him the code, David,” she begged, unable to stomach the idea of watching her friend killed over it.  “Please, just give it to him.”

“No,” he wheezed, shaking his head as he forced himself to his hands and knees.  “They’ll have to kill me.”

Emma shuddered, a solitary tear tracking down her face.  “Give him the code, Nolan.”

David shook his head, glaring at her for pulling rank, and stayed silent.

Hades nodded again, and Emma heard the snap of ribs under the assault.

“Stop!” she cried.  “Stop it!”

She could see David shaking when they paused again, could hear the way his breath rattled.  “David.  I’m ordering you to give him your Cerberus code.  That’s a direct order from your Commander-in-Chief.”

She could see his heart break.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered.  “They’ll _never_ get mine.”

Not now.  Not now that they both knew Henry was safe and out of reach.

Hades nodded and the men reached down to drag David to his feet.  He was barely able to stand, his knees buckling before stubbornly trying to support him once more.  Hades reached out and dragged a finger over the gash in David’s eyebrow, smirking at the hiss of pain it elicited.

“Your code,” he whispered, cocking his head to the side like it was a secret.

“It’s an order, David,” Emma reminded him, knowing what it would cost him to follow it.

Hades grabbed him by the throat and forced David to look at her.  “Sir,” he bit out, pleading to be allowed to sacrifice himself.

Emma couldn’t allow it.  “Tell _me_ the code, David.  Now.”

“Yes, sir,” he croaked, sounding utterly defeated.  His voice broke on each digit, never looking away from her, and Emma almost felt like he was condemning her for saving him.

When the computer beeped jovially, indicating that David hadn’t tried to do something noble like lie, the men dragged him back to Emma’s side and dropped him to the ground without a care.  He could barely lift his head from the cold tile, and she almost hoped that he would pass out, would find some respite from the pain that was stealing all of his strength.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed out shakily.  “I’m so sorry, David.”

She wasn’t entirely sure, but she thought she saw him nod and then smile.  His eyes fluttered shut and everything went still.  Emma’s heart was in her throat as she watched his chest fearfully, waiting and praying to see it rise and fall.

It was small, but it was there.  He was alive, and now all they had to do was wait for whatever happened next.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, dear Nina!
> 
> For the rest of you (and Nina, too, I suppose) this is being posted incomplete so that I can at least get the chapter posted *close* to her birthday. As such, I can't guarantee regular updates like I do with most of my fics. I *do* have three chapters written so far, so at least I'm a little ahead.


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